


Agency

by TinyGayAutisticBae



Category: Hitman (Video Games)
Genre: 47 is not a robot, F/M, If you squint I suppose, Pre-Relationship, a little oneshot, and i am infamous for not actually finishing things, character study more than anything else, i wanted to write something for this fandom, inspired by the Fuck Cabin a little bit, so here, tho he struggles with emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 05:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30083835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyGayAutisticBae/pseuds/TinyGayAutisticBae
Summary: Diana and 47 talk about choice and freedom in the cabin where it started.Includes references to the legendary "even steak don't cry" by cicak (aka the one with the F#ck Cabin).
Relationships: Agent 47 & Diana Burnwood, Agent 47/Diana Burnwood
Comments: 14
Kudos: 32





	Agency

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [even steak don't cry](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21083105) by [cicak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicak/pseuds/cicak). 



Light filtered lazily through the thick panes of glass shielding the man from the harsh outside world. The rough-hewn wood bench he sat on felt solid and stable, its irregularities soothing, perfect in its imperfection. The accompanying table was likewise sturdy and familiar, built from pine and clearly having weathered many seasons in this place. The entire building spoke of permanence, of having been here long before the man was born, and of standing long after he died. That, too, was soothing.

The walls of the log cabin bore little interest, barring the single portrait of a bowl of fruit on the wall directly above him: twenty-three grapes on their stem, two pears, one apple, and a hand of bananas, all stacked artistically upon an unglazed terracotta dish. He had seen the portrait but once, upon his entry into the cabin. He had not refocused his gaze on it since.

47 noticed things. It was in his nature to observe. Opportunities came and went as fleetingly as birds on the wing, and if his eyes were not upon them at that moment, they could be gone forever. He could analyse body language, posture, enunciation until he could be almost certain of a person’s opinion from a hundred yards.

He could read others like a book, no, like a billboard. They broadcasted their emotions, their innermost thoughts, as though it was as essential as breathing. _This is me_ , they seemed to blare at him, _glance and you can know everything!_

It made stealing an identity so… _simple_. When everything seems just right at first glance, there’s no need to look closer. If your guards all look and act the same way as they did when you last turned to face them, why on earth would any of them be different on this cursory glance?

There were few people he could not immediately read, whose mannerisms he could not imitate. The majority of those were easily rectified with some furtive examination, but there was always one who eluded his understanding.

Diana Burnwood.

It wasn’t until after the collapse of the ICA, after Lucas Grey and the Constant and the Stuyvesants, Carlisles and Ingrams… it wasn’t until after all of that, taking a break in a remote cabin he had purchased many years ago, that he finally understood why. He took a worn business card from his jacket pocket, smoothed it out. It had the Providence symbol embossed in the lower-left corner; a string of numbers written in such utterly nondescript writing that it could only have come from Diana. Her handwriting was nothing like this, which of course meant it could come from nobody else.

This, he understood. He called the number on a burner phone. She did not pick up; he didn’t expect her to. A set of coordinates, date and time, all in a voice that was not hers, that he knew would not be hers… which only confirmed that it was her.

Diana had once confided in the Constant that 47 had only one weakness – herself. She was right, and that was how he knew with certainty that this was not a trap – had Providence wanted to draw him in, Diana herself would have written the message, would have recorded the coordinates and the date.

It was the exact opposite of logical, and that was why it was her.

Like killing, Diana was chaotic… disordered.

And yet, she made more and more sense to him with every passing day.

* * *

And this was how he found himself walking towards a remote cabin in the middle of Alaska, a cabin he had been to but once early in his career and then never again. He had wanted to return, but there had been no reason to, and after the ICA’s downfall he felt certain he would never see the cabin again. She must have been as attached to it as he was. Fate (or _Providence_ ) had a nasty habit of bringing him back to places he had visited before, but this time it was not a malignant act. This felt like coming home.

He stepped up from the snow onto the raised porch. 47 raised a hand and knocked, stepping half a pace back and waiting. The stillness that followed a fresh snowfall was unlike any other – it blanketed the world in silence, smothered the sounds of nature as if they were afraid to rouse in the face of a flawless bank of snow.

“Diana.”

And then she was there, standing in the half-opened door, one eyebrow just slightly raised at him.

“Are you coming in?” she asked, already turned away, venturing deeper into the cabin. Just like always, he followed her lead, closing the door firmly behind himself and unlacing his boots.

That was how he found himself in that space, looking out of the window. Diana was brewing coffee – he could hear her somewhere behind him. Aside from the greeting, they hadn’t spoken, hadn’t needed to. It had been a year and yet it felt like no time had passed at all.

A mug of coffee was set in front of him – black, no sugar. 47 took his coffee however the person preparing it for him made it and would enjoy it regardless of how sugar-laden or milky it may be. Secretly though, he mostly preferred it this way – it was much easier to see any film atop it, any kind of poison secreted into his beverage.

It was staggering how many people didn’t check for that sort of thing.

“I took the deeds to the land,” Diana says, sliding into the seat opposite the assassin, cradling her own cup in turn. “Felt like the right thing to do.”

47 nodded, allowing his eyes to search her face. She had aged since he’d last seen her, subtle fine lines around her eyes and a thin crease to her forehead. It was subtle, barely noticeable, but 47 noticed things. That was his job.

“It’s good to see you,” he finally settled on. “You look…” _Younger_ , he wanted to say; although physically the exact opposite was true, she did have a more youthful look now. Unburdened, perhaps. “Happier.”

She raised the mug to her lips and drank, then lowered it. 47’s eyes traced the pattern on her sweater as she thought of a reply. “I suppose I am,” she murmured finally. “It’s over.”

“It’s over,” 47 echoed. Her posture was guarded, tight and uncertain. He had to put her at ease. “I checked the perimeter when I got here. The snow was undisturbed. Nobody around for miles.”

Her shoulders loosened somewhat, a lopsided smile making its way onto her face. “Thank you, 47.” She cast her gaze out to the ever-building snowbank outside as if expecting to see footprints appear in the snow before her.

They fell into silence, though not an uncomfortable one. It was the sort of silence that was punctuated by nothing but the creak of the benches and the occasional crackle of the fire.

“Why did you bring me here?” 47 finally asked.

Diana snapped her gaze back onto him. She didn’t say anything for a while, just studying his face. “I left that card for you in Macau three months ago, 47,” she eventually said, a strange sort of expression on her face. “I didn’t _bring_ you here. I asked, I hoped, and you came.”

47 allowed the slightest of furrowing to form on his brow. “But why?”

“I don’t know.”

And he knew it was the truth, he knew because she couldn’t look him in the eye and say it. “I don’t know why I came either. I came because I could,” he offered. “I have that choice now.”

He had spent the week before in a safehouse in Paris, incidentally not far from the Palais de Walewska where that fateful Sanguine fashion show had taken place all those years ago. He had looked at the card Diana had planted, tried to discern anything he could about the writer. He had felt a sensation in his chest each time he looked at it, a tugging of sorts. It was… uncomfortable. But when he had thought of seeing Diana again when he had thought of Mendoza, his heart rate had increased and the tug in his chest had intensified.

“I want to be here,” he said, trying to catch Diana’s eye. “I want to understand why I want to be here.”

“But those two are not the same, are they?” she responded, taking a sip of her coffee.

He tilted his head in acquiescence. “Maybe it’ll make sense the more I’m here.” Silence descended for a moment as his gaze roamed the cabin, ultimately landing on the stack of firewood heaped by the door. It was getting low.

“I’ll chop some more wood.”

The slightest of a smile appeared on his face as he rose to his feet – a decision he had made himself, for himself. It felt… good. Finally having agency.

“Diana?” he paused just before going outside, waiting until she made eye contact with him. The faintest smile flickered onto his face, the most expressive he ever became.

“It’s good to be back.”

**Author's Note:**

> sdhfjahsfjaksh honestly this is more of a writing exercise than anything meaningful but I hope someone out there enjoys it?


End file.
